Nightmares
by Celeste Ravenloft
Summary: Set after The Reichenbach Fall, short, one-shot. It's quite about the feels. John and Sherlock dealing with the aftermath of the Fall. Please leave a review!


**I wrote this after watching the end of The Reichenbach Fall for probably the second or third time (I've seen the episode dozens of times-I can't always watch the end). Feels like that have to be dealt with somehow. Writing one-shot fanfiction works for me, what can I say.**

**Please review! Thoughts, reactions and _constructive_ criticism are all very, very welcome. :)**

**Disclaimer- I don't own the BBC's Sherlock. Or any other production of Sherlock Holmes' adventures, come to think of it. Dammit.**

* * *

"Shhh, John, it's alright. I'm here."

Sherlock's deep voice whispered through the dark, and a moment later his hand, soft and cool, touched the shoulder of the man thrashing on the bed.

John's soft cry, "Don't… Sherlock…" stopped abruptly, as his friend's voice cut through his nightmare-shrouded sleep.

Deep blue eyes flickered slightly, and as John pulled himself out of unconsciousness his hands shot out and grasped Sherlock's shirt. The doctor sat bolt upright, his eyes flying open and catching the gaze of the startled pale eyes above him.

"Y-you're… It.." Confused, John looked Sherlock up and down, hands relaxing in their death-grip and then patting cautiously along the other man's shoulders.

"Another nightmare, John. Really, you make it impossible to think." His words were annoyed, but the man couldn't hide his worry. Watson, off-kilter from his nightmare and the tone of his friend, nodded slowly, glancing up and meeting his gaze again.

"Sorry." John's hands fell limply to the rumpled bed sheets, and his eyes wandered to the window. A confused look crossed his face when he saw something lying on the sill, and his eyes turned back to Sherlock. "Were you staying up in here?"

A slight ripple across Sherlock's face was the only indication that John had touched a nerve of some sort. The detective stood brusquely, smoothing out his button-down shirt and making sure it was tucked into his slacks. "Of course not." He denied in an imperious tone, discreetly swiping the book from the sill into his hand and slipping out of the room.

"Now that you're up, I assume that you wouldn't mind making tea." Sherlock's voice echoed in, and John sighed, but smiled softly. He could tell when his flat mate didn't care, or when he was brushing it off out of embarrassment. This was the latter, and the doctor couldn't help but be a little pleased with Sherlock's reaction.

As he rose, his thoughts cast to the nightmare, and he shuddered. It was less nightmare than memory really, and it was always the same. Despite faking his suicide, Sherlock had come back to him months ago, but still the memory of the fall, the blood—it haunted John. He saw his own hand, reaching in front of him, felt strangers holding him back, heard a voice (his own?) yelling that it was his friend, yelling at Sherlock to get up. And worst of all, he saw those familiar eyes staring blankly into the distance, that manic flicker of light that kept them so bright and captivating, gone. That disgustingly scarlet blood against pale skin, awfully crimson blood against suddenly hateful pavement.

He shuddered and got up, pulling on his favorite jumper and a pair of pants. There was no way he'd get back to sleep tonight, not with those visions in his head.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair; fingers peaked under his chin, bright eyes gazing vacantly into the distance. When John entered, Sherlock blinked, surfacing a little, and glanced at him to mutter "Watch for my experiment," before retreating into his head once more.

"Experiment?" John asked, not expecting an answer. He glanced warily into the kitchenette in the corner of 221b. He sighed as he saw various vessels on the counter, full of liquids of ranging color filled with chunks of what appeared to be intestine.

"What _exactly_ are you trying to accomplish with this, Sherlock?" John asked testily, rearranging the containers some so he could start assembling a pot of tea. At some point this would have disturbed him, but no more.

"Hm? Oh, watching rates of decomposition in various acidic environments." He muttered distractedly, regaining his statue-like pose for another moment before suddenly unfolding his spidery self from his perch.

"Could he get in from the window? No, too obvious." The man started pacing while his flat mate continued making tea and ignored the harsh, rapid-fire mumbles.

When John had poured the tea and was carrying it out to check his laptop, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and started furiously typing, then presumably clicked send and looked up as Watson sat down. Blinking, he glanced to John's hand, which was curled around only one cup.

He frowned, "Why didn't you bring me some?"

"You're a grown man. You can get your own." John's eyebrow rose and he looked at Sherlock. The younger man's frown deepened, then changed to one of interest.

"You're getting better. I almost believed you." He was at John's side in one long stride, accepting the cup of tea the other man was lifting from his side.

Sherlock took a long drink, "Thank you." He said suddenly, and John smiled even though it sounded like an afterthought. It was so rare that Sherlock even pretended to thank anyone, and whenever he said it to John it always felt sincere. Even more so now, after he'd…

John shuddered slightly. The effects, the shakiness of the dream had just been going away, too. He began to stoically ignore it again and worked on calming himself back down, looking to Sherlock—who was apparently checking up on his decomposition—more than once to assure himself that the tall, eccentric man was still there.

Finally he managed to focus on what he was doing, and got a new blog entry page up. Taking a deep breath, he began to type an overview of the case his flat mate had solved the day before.

"_Murder at Wisteria Lodge"_ he typed cautiously, staring at the title for a good four or five minutes before beginning to furiously type, recalling as much as he could (and occasionally asking Sherlock something) to make sure his blog entry was accurate. At first, this had just been a suggestion from his therapist, then he was doing it because people were actually _interested_. Now he did it because Sherlock was back, and it was part of the life they'd built together.

This was his second blog entry since Sherlock had turned up on the doorstep (very much alive) and John took great care in writing it. Giving details about himself were something he rarely did, only allowing what was necessary to explain the case. His nightmares were something that only he and Sherlock knew of, just as the miraculous way Sherlock managed to fake his own death was something only he and Molly Hooper knew (a heavy blow to John's security in their friendship. The many times he'd bugged his friend about it, Sherlock had just called him an idiot for thinking he needed to know. Eventually John had just had to settle for having Sherlock alive, and hoped the man wasn't concealing anything else from him).

At some point Sherlock's thin frame leaned over him, reading over his shoulder what he was typing and breathing softly against his ear. "'Raking hordes of pain,'" he quoted before looking rather dismayed and demanding, "John just what exactly are you writing?"

"Sherlock, I've told you before. If you don't like my blog, don't read it." The doctor rumbled, but there was something warm, happy about the way he spoke that made the pale set of eyes above him flick down. "I have to know what you're saying about me though. What if you called me names or some other rubbish?"

"Sherlock I call you a prick all the time." John protested, half-turning in his chair as Sherlock straightened. John found himself taken a little aback when his eyes fell on the man, though, by the sudden smile that softened his features.

"You calling me prick in person and on your blog are two very different things, John."

"How?" he frowned, but knew that the other man was right. Sherlock smiled indulgently, and turned away without another word. Rolling his eyes, John sighed and finished typing. After a little quick editing he closed the laptop and looked out the window onto Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson shuffled in a little bit later, cooing about how thin Sherlock looked (she always found something to fret over since he'd come back), and made them fresh tea and brought up some food from her flat with a firm "This is a one-time thing, boys. Remember, I'm not your housekeeper!" even though this was the third time that week alone that she had done something along these lines. Sherlock accepted with a smile, and munched distractedly on a sandwich while scrolling through something on his phone.

John also ate a sandwich, finding himself surprisingly hungry. Slightly preoccupied, he went to his room and came out pulling on his coat. Sherlock's sharp eyes lifted, glancing at him.

"Would you pick up some baking soda while you're out?" the man asked, turning his gaze back to his mobile.

"Go get your own damn baking soda." John grumbled, but he walked out without protest and Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

A half hour later, walking home with a few shopping bags, John fumbled at his pocket, recognizing the tone for a text.

_Come home. Now._

_-SH_

Panic fluttered through John's chest at the sight of the words, and he pocketed the phone, stepping up his pace. He was practically running by the time he reached 221b, and he pawed at the door, nearly dropping a bag before he fell into the flat and jogged up the stairs. Panting, he emerged in 221b, glancing wildly around.

Sherlock wasn't in the main body of the flat, and he ducked into the kitchen, dropping the bags on the floor when he realized his friend wasn't here either.

"Sherlock?" he cried, whirling and rushing up to the detective's room, where he stopped short, panting softly from fear.

The spidery man was sitting on the edge of his bed, head hanging down so his mop of dark, curly hair obscured his face from view.

"John?" he whispered, lifting his long face to peer at his friend, "I'm sorry."

Utter confusion swept through John, and his relief from seeing Sherlock okay evaporated as he heard the man's strained voice.

"Sherlock? What's wrong, tell me what's wrong." He demanded, stepping over to crouch near his friend.

"I left. I shouldn't have… Mrs. Hudson told me how hard it was for you," he shook his head and stopped talking. It had been months since he returned, and they had only talked about this when he first came back and told John he was alive. Really, most of that conversation had been John shouting and then breaking down and having to sit Sherlock down and stare at him, touching him more than he liked to admit, to assure himself that his friend had really lied. That he hadn't been dead.

Now, John stared, shocked, as Sherlock apologized for the first time. Cautiously, he set his hand on the shaking man's shoulder.

"Sherlock?" he said softly, and then waited for that pale gaze rose to meet his. "It's alright. I'm not mad anymore." John whispered, his voice shaking slightly.

"I was at my grave."

John froze, trying to determine what he meant. Then it hit him.

"Wh-when I went with…"

"Mrs. Hudson. You told me… You told me not to be dead," Sherlock took a deep breath, and his voice hitched on the next part, "For you. I almost came out then, told you. It was…" he regained himself some now, straightening. His speech turned brisk and he sounded more like himself, "It was nearly impossible to stay hidden, but I had a job to do, and I would not endanger your life on a whim." The detective paused and then quietly added, "Purposely."

John's head lowered slightly, and he nodded slowly. "I can't be angry with you, Sherlock. I already did that, and frankly it was exhausting. Just forgive yourself, we're both alright now."

Sherlock looked up, and frowned, "Who said I blamed myself?"

"You're getting worse. I don't believe you for a second." The blond doctor smiled softly and stepped away, feeling a mite emotional.

"Sherlock?" he suddenly looked at the man in question, frowning slightly. A questioning glance flitted across Sherlock's face, then it smoothed and he smiled slightly.

"No, I didn't talk to you John. It would seem I can't quite manage that when I _know_ you're not there."

John nodded, and quickly left the room, scrubbing his sleeve at his eyes and hoping that Sherlock hadn't noticed the tears that had accumulated… And taking comfort in the knowledge that his friend had enough tact not to say anything when John's relieved sniffles filled their flat.


End file.
